New Beginnings
by Juliette Madigan
Summary: In Which There Will Be Much Rejoicing and Lots of Injuries.  Sequel to "Stradivarius." You should really read that first. It's quite long, but don't worry. I'll wait. Not slash, which I don't think will diminish the adorable-ness.
1. From the Inbox of DI Lestrade

**This story is rated T for language, drug references, gore, and some mentions of suicide. I do not own the characters or the world they live in (that honor goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss), but I do own what happens to them in the following chapters. Constructive criticism is appreciated. Thank you, and enjoy. **

Re: John

With all due respect, I think you might be worrying too much. I think he was seeing a therapist before he ever met Sherlock-for his limp or something. I don't think it's bad that it's come back, either, because if what you're saying is true it only went away when he or someone else was in danger or they were on a case together, neither of which could have been good for him. And if you ask me he just needs to settle down, which he's been doing. I mean, the poor bugger came back from the war with PTSD and probably depression as well, so this is…well not _good_ for him, but I don't really think he'd depressed, either. He didn't seem very depressed last Friday when you met up for drinks, right? There are all sorts of reasons he could have a prescription for Prozac. He's a doctor.

In short, you're worrying too much. It's been three years, we've all gotten over it. There's no reason to keep bringing up the past. He has nothing to feel guilty about and neither do you.

-Sally Donovan


	2. Recovery

_Cineri Gloria Sera Venit_

_Fame to the Dead Comes Too Late_

_Meet me at Blakes next Friday? I got us a reservation._

I closed the laptop, taking another sip from my coffee. My heart accelerated a little as I pressed "send." Part of me hoped Sarah would say she was busy, and part of me hoped not. I had a ring buried in the back of my closet at home. It was nice. Oh, God, what if she thought it was horrible?

I took another sip. _You're worrying too much_, I told myself sternly. _Stop thinking about it. It'll work out._

I had the day off-it was a Thursday. Good thing, too. I've never been very good at Thursdays. I had taken a walk this morning to try to get my leg to behave properly. It had been hurting sporadically on and off since-

Right. That.

I had become, by necessity, a master of not thinking about things. Whether or not Sarah would say yes, Lestrade calling me up at five in the morning to ask, very politely, if I was depressed (yes, he worries, _I get it_, but if he could refrain from calling so early…), and certainly not Sherlock. Some days I missed him so much that it hurt, sometimes I wouldn't think about him for months. On and off. Much like the leg pain, in fact. The nightmares were gone, thankfully, but now I didn't dream at all.

Life had been normal since he died, but that's just it. I kept feeling like _I_ should feel lucky, happy even, and I was. For the most part. But there was always something missing.

I knew, in the back of my head, that it would never go away. That night would haunt me for the rest of my life-I was never going to forget it. Moving on is different, though. And that's what I had done, what we had all done. Moved on. Thanked him for the ride and then gotten on with our lives. Business as usual for Lestrade and the Met. Last I heard Mycroft was off in Paris somewhere. Mrs. Hudson still made the best biscuits in existence.

That's what I think he would have wanted.

I got up, swinging the laptop case, and got into a cab. I wanted to go home. The empty seat next to me was like a presence.

Still not the same.

I hate Thursdays.


	3. Horizons

It was a perfect spring day, despite the cloudiness. The cherry blossom tree on the corner of Baker and Paddington was in full bloom, pink, crinoline-like blossoms whispering in the breeze. Winter had the evanescence of the morning mist.

I was about to walk up to the front door when I bumped into someone a good head taller than me. I had forgotten to zip my laptop bag. All my papers, including a study on the medical benefits of cranberries that I didn't know I still had-went flying.

"Oh, my goodness, I am so sorry," said the bloke sprawled all over the pavement.

"No, that's…fine," I replied to thin air. He had already walked off.

Well, that's London for you.

I started to gather up the pile of papers, wincing slightly as my leg protested being in such a convoluted position for more than a minute.

"Need some help there?" said a voice from somewhere above me.

"Er…yeah, thanks," I said gratefully. The man-he had a shock of red-brown hair, looked young and naïve, probably a college student by the look of his glasses- gathered the explosion of file folders until I had a somewhat manageable pile. It was heavier than I expected.

I looked up. _Oh, hell, it's going to rain_, I thought. My leg gave a little twinge of pain and I gasped involuntarily.

"How about I help you carry these in?" said the stranger, watching me with an unusual amount of concern for someone I didn't even know. He had an American accent (_that_ explained it), but he probably had moved here recently, as he was carrying groceries.

Part of me wanted to insist that I was perfectly capable of doing it myself, but caution won out over pride in the end. I really didn't want to trip carrying a laptop up the stairs. "That would be great."

Mrs. Hudson was out. We made it to the landing before I turned around and started to say, "Thanks, I can take it from-"

Then I stopped. Because the wig, the glasses, the bag of groceries, and the colored contacts were lying on the floor, and in their place was someone I hadn't seen for a very long time.

"You don't mind if I stretch my legs a little, do you?" said Sherlock Holmes, dropping the American accent. "It was a long flight from New York and I've got terrible jet lag."

I've never fainted before in my life, but I dimly remember thinking, _ah, so this is what it feels like_, before the world faded to black.


	4. Too Soon

_Better three hours too soon than a minute too late._

_-William Shakespeare (The Merry Wives of Windsor, Act II, Scene II)_

The next thing I knew I was sitting in my chair, collar undone. Sherlock was, inexplicably, perched on the other one, elbows on his knees. He looked exactly like I remembered him-striking features, dense, curly black hair, and a cat-like air of preciseness. He was even wearing a slightly wrinkled blazer.

"Oh," I said aloud, after a long minute of silent incomprehension. "I get it. I'm hallucinating."

"Nope."

"Yes I am. You're dead. You've been dead for three years now and there is no way you're sitting in my chair."

"I thought this was _my_ chair."

"It was, but you're _dead_." He was proving surprisingly stubborn about this simple fact.

"Are you sure? Really sure?"

Then it hit me. _I'm _hallucinating. This was _bad._

"Oh no," I said, getting up, suddenly afraid. "No-no, you're not real, This isn't happening. Stop it." I hadn't hallucinated anything before, ever. Oh, my God. Something was wrong. _This couldn't be happening._

He cocked an eyebrow. "Seriously, John? Look, just let me-" He strode forward and took my hand. It was steady.

"Tactile hallucination," I snapped automatically, snatching it back. _Oh my God, I'm actually having a conversation with a hallucination. No, no, get a _grip_, John, come on, you can do this…_

"I'm going to close my eyes," I said, in as measured a voice as I could, "And I'm going to count to three. And when I open them, you'll be gone."

He sighed, then took a deep breath. "You're taking Prozac for depression, as prescribed by your therapist, whom you've started going to against Mycroft's wishes-I _told _him to tell you not to-which you don't even need. The first conclusion you jumped to was that you were hallucinating."

"Most people would have thought that!"

"You're not most people, you're a doctor, you think in side effects. You know there would have to be a reason, and hallucination is a serious side effect of quite a lot of anti-depressants. Painkillers, too, but the leg's not _that _bad. It's partly psychosomatic, anyway, in case you've forgotten. You've been on call the past few weeks judging by the coffee stains on your teeth, so the hospital's understaffed, and you're thinking about moving in with Sarah as you've got a picture of the two of you on your desk, which means you haven't broken up yet but there are no articles of women's clothing in here at all, although I assume they would be in your bedroom. But there's none of her stuff in here either. Nothing remotely feminine, except you've got _Love, Actually_ on the shelf. You? No, no, no, that was for Sarah's benefit. You _hate_ that movie."

"Actually that's fairly accu-"

"Shot in the dark, then, good one." He looked extremely pleased with himself. "I just keep finding new ways to surprise you, don't I?"

I sat back down slowly. "Oh, my God. It really is you."

"Yes, I believe we've established that already-"

"Fucking _hell_!"

"Language, John."

"Okay, sorry, but, I mean…fuck, Sherlock!"

"I suppose I owe you an explanation."

"You better believe you owe me an explanation! Everybody thought you were dead! We thought you _killed yourself_!"

"All part of the plan."

"What, tax evasion? Scaring me half to death?"

He smiled a little at that. "Not quite. To the first one, anyway. Perhaps that was a little too dramatic."

"Yeah," I said weakly, sinking back into the chair. "No kidding."

He then launched into his narrative. I didn't interrupt, not even when he told me his twisted justification for going after Moriarty. He seemed almost…perturbed, which was a word I simply didn't associate with him. I listened to all of this with a growing sense of frustration until we arrived at Mycroft, which is when I decided I couldn't take it anymore.

"Mycroft? Sorry, you told _Mycroft_?"

"Yes, I just said that. I needed someone to help me hunt down Moriarty's associates, didn't I?"

"You told MYCROFT and you didn't tell ME?"

"I-"

"I thought you trusted me!"

"This isn't about trust," he said impatiently. "That's not even important."

"Yes it is! You _lied_ to me-to all of us, Sherlock!"

"It was necessary. Sit down. _Sit._"

I hadn't even noticed getting up. "You're telling me to sit down? Look at in perspective, John, it's not that big a deal-well, I thought it was a big deal! I THOUGHT IT WAS MY FAULT!"

"Well it wasn't exactly a picnic," he shot back, eyes narrowing as he stood, too. "I was fighting for my life."

"Oh, yeah, with the help of the CIA and MI6 and whichever other organizations Mycroft's pulling the strings of, that must have been hard-"

"He didn't tell anyone, we had to do it all in secret! I was dead to the world, remember? It was unfortunate, yeah, sure, but I couldn't tell people! Do you think you could have written such a _convincing_ account of my death if you-"

I slapped him. Hard. I didn't care about the noise he made-like he had been sucker-punched, or the devastation plain on his face.

It felt _good_.

For a long moment we just stared at each other, both breathing hard. He put a cautious hand up to his face and wiped away the blood dripping from his nose. The red contrasted sharply with his crisp white dress shirt.

"I was going to move some of my stuff back in," he said slowly, gauging my reaction with his sharp gray eyes. "Mycroft has most of it."

"You no longer live here," I said coldly.

I may as well have slapped him again, for the look in his eyes. That made me rethink a little.

"Okay," I sighed. "All right, I shouldn't have-look, I'll get you something for your nose, just…" I made a circular gesture with one hand, not sure what he should do in the meantime. "Sit down."

He nodded wordlessly, still watching me with those steely eyes.

When his nose had been patched up, I was still mad. And so, unfathomably, was he. I could tell. His anger was simmering beneath that cold mask of his, just below the surface.

"Why don't we drop by Lestrade?" he asked innocently. "I wanted to ask about the Adair murder…"

"Fine. Sure."

We both knew that this was by no means an apology. I wasn't sure I would ever forgive him.

"Oh, by the way," I said, to break the awkward silence as we walked down the stairs, "You were wrong about one thing."

"Oh?"

"I'm not moving in with Sarah. I'm proposing to her. Next Friday."

I immediately felt guilty, but consoled myself with the fact that he probably didn't even care.


	5. Distance

_Arguments, like men, are often pretenders.  
__-Plato_

"What, we're not on for Friday anymore?" asked Lestrade, confusion creasing the craggy lines of his face. "I mean, you could have called." He leaned forward on his desk, hands clasped together underneath his chin, looking concerned all of a sudden. "Unless you just wanted to talk, which is…fine. Do you want to sit down?"

I had been pacing his office for the past few minutes-not as easy feat, given the small size of it. I think he was starting to worry I'd bore a hole in his carpet. I stopped in my tracks and turned to him.

"No, I don't…look, I'm not depressed! Why does everyone-"

"No one said anything about you being depressed," he reminded me gently. He didn't have to say the rest-he was thinking it. It was in his look and the way he was sitting and now it was starting to ooze out into the air as something alive, choking, constant. Everywhere I went, the same look.

_Someone's in denial,_ whispered the voice. _Maybe you need the medication. Who are you to question a trained professional? Who are you to trust Sherlock over people who've seen the aftereffects of almost a year spent in a slow, torturous game for someone else's amusement? Who are you to even trust yourself?_

But I ignored it, for the time being. It wasn't helping. I resumed pacing to give my feet something to do.

He frowned suddenly. "This isn't about all those missing badges, is it?"

"What? The police badges?" I laughed entirely unconvincingly, my insides squirming with guilt at the thought of the pile of stolen police badges that I hadn't had the heart to return. They were still under a floorboard in Sherlock's room. "No! No, don't be-of course it isn't. How would I know where they are? Ahaha. Right. I have no idea where they…could be."

"Right," he echoed, sounding just as unconvinced as I was. "So is this about Sherlock?"

"Er, yeah. Kind of. Well…this is going to be a bit of a shock."

"He's left me a house in Paris? I know his brother had a summer home…"

"If memory serves me correctly," said Sherlock, walking into the room, "I left you next to nothing. Well, except John. You've been taking horrible care of him, I have to say. Has he told he wants to propose to Sarah yet?"

I turned around slowly, fists clenched. "Thanks."

Lestrade didn't react except to raise his eyebrows.

"John?" he asked, sounding hurt.

"Yeah?"

"This isn't very funny."

Sherlock smiled glibly. "I don't make jokes. At least not according to you."

"You…faked your own suicide."

"Yes."

"Why."

This time, Lestrade had the courtesy to let Sherlock finish his story, more than I could say for myself.

"…and so basically, I've been traveling the world, lying low, multiple false identities. I spent a few weeks in Cancun, which was quite nice. That's all."

The Inspector nodded, then threw his entire plastic pen-holder at him, which promptly caused Sherlock's nose to start bleeding again.

"WHAT THE HELL, SHERLOCK!"

"Okay," I said a little nervously. I didn't know his face could turn that shade of red. "Okay, let's just…he's already gotten this talk from me-"

"WELL, SOME REINFORCEMENT ISN'T GOING TO KILL HIM!"

_You might_, I thought.

"I wanted do see you aboud de Adair burder," Sherlock plowed on with a kind of mad, suicidal audacity, pinching his nose to stem the blood flow. "You'be been handling it better dan usual-which is to say you handled it pretty terribly. "

"He means," I amended hastily, noting the deepening shade of scarlet the Inspector was going, "He means your _team_ handled it badly, not to imply…wait, not that your team is…er…ah." I scratched the back of my head nervously. "Can I start over?"

"_Out_," he hissed. "Out. Get out. Now. Both of you."

We hurried into the hallway. Mercifully, Sherlock's nose had stopped bleeding. He deliberately stood on the other side of the closed door, just under a painting of sunrise on a glacier.

Two could play that game. I stood on the opposite side and looked in the other direction.

"Two bloody noses in one day," he said abruptly. "That's got to be some sort of record."

"What, for you?" I snorted, replying despite myself. "Can't be." I glanced over at him to find he was looking at me. We looked away hurriedly. I cleared my throat.

"That was a really…horrible…thing to say," I said, still determined not to make eye contact. "About Lestrade. I mean, even for you."

"He's been floundering ever since I left. The solve rate's at an all-time low. They need me." He sounded _smug_.

"And that makes you happy, does it?"

"Yes, what a terribly selfish thing, wanting to feel important."

_Wanting to feel needed, _I thought. _How long ago was it that you felt the same way?_ I frowned. _This is different._

"You don't want to feel important, you want to feel…I don't know. I don't think you care about how you feel. Or how anyone else does."

"I never said that. I'm capable of caring."

"You've got a funny way of showing it."

"Just because I'm not some bleeding heart that goes around crying at every drop of a hat-"

"I'm talking about basic courtesy!"

"Which most people barely deserve. The world's full of idiots."

"And I'm just another one of them, that's it, right?"

"Remind me again how much your therapist charges per hour?"

"None of your concern."

"You're being defensive."  
"I am _not_."

"And now you're defensively insisting you're not being defensive. I wonder what she would say about that."

"Shut up," I snapped.

"How original," he spat back, turning to face me. His eyes were blazing with anger. "I thought you would be _better _than that, _Doctor Watson_."

I was about to reply when Lestrade opened the door.

"All right, you can come back in."

I felt, not for the first in my life, like I was being called to the headmaster's office; however, Lestrade was much more avuncular than the short, balding man at Kelmscott. The DI had a startling capacity for both intimidation and understated kindness, which was why he was so well liked around the Met and so good at his job.

He put a hand over his face, as though trying to rub the frustration from his eyes. "I'm sorry I lost it. I shouldn't have yelled, or thrown things. You wanted to hear about the Adair murder?"

This was such a sincere and concise apology that I think even Sherlock was taken aback. At the least, he seemed a little flustered.

"Er, yeah. Yes. I'd like the official version first."

"Fine, then."

"I can do that," I interrupted. Sherlock stared. I crossed my arms. We didn't _both _have to be childish about this. "Well, if you don't want me to…"

"No, go ahead, _Doctor_," said Sherlock, clipped.

Lestrade glanced from me to him meaningfully, then tilted his head in question. I moved my head back and forth as slightly as I could. _Later._

He pursed his lips, but let it go.

I felt the urge to start pacing again, but there wasn't enough room in the cramped office.

"Two days ago, Will Adair, son of an Australian diplomat, was murdred. He didn't have any enemies or anything like that. I think the papers said he had a gambling problem."

Sherlock's eyes lit up at this, but he made no comment.

"Anyway, it wasn't a robbery since there was nothing missing, he was just sitting at home alone. He was eighteen. His parents were out. They came back a few hours later to find him dead on the floor, bullet through his head. It killed him instantly. That's all they know."

He nodded slowly. "That was pathetic investigative reporting on their part, but okay. Lestrade?"

"The door was locked, hadn't been forced, there was even a security system on the flat. No one was in there."

"The windows-"

"Were open-it was nice out-but a few of the flats below them had flower beds and they were undisturbed. So they couldn't have climbed up. We thought he had to have been shot through the window, but no one's _that_ good."

Sherlock looked at me and smiled fleetingly, remembering a certain cab driver incident four years ago. I smiled back, and for a moment all was well again until we remembered we were mad at each other.

"How far away was the building across the street?" he asked coolly, mirth melting off his face.

"About a hundred feet."

"Then you're right…no one _I_ know of is that good with a handgun. John, what do you think?" he asked, directing the question at the window.

He was asking for _my_ opinion? "Er…I think maybe it had something to do with the gambling…they weren't very specific about how bad it was, probably the family leaning on the press…he could have owed someone and they got tired of waiting around to collect."

"In which case they would have tried blackmail."

"And they wouldn't have been able to. He was a model student, about to head off to Oxford, head boy, all that. No secrets."

"Everyone has secrets."

"You won't get anything out of the family," warned Lestrade. "They're barely cooperating with us."

"Oh, I don't plan to." He turned to me, cocking an eyebrow. A challenge. "How good are you at poker?"


	6. Motivation

Lestrade turned to me as soon as Sherlock had swept out of the room. The man exuded the aura of having that dramatic, navy blue coat on even when he wasn't wearing it.

"You're mad," Lestrade said simply.

"Well of course I'm mad!"

"You've got every reason to be."

"I thought he trusted me! I mean, I thought we were…I don't know…" I looked at the floor, suddenly embarrassed. It seemed something of a ludicrous idea now. "Friends."

"I'm sure a lot of people told you he doesn't have any," said Lestrade. I shrugged.

"They were wrong." He moved around to his desk and sat down. "The thing about Sherlock…I've never seen him really respond to someone the way he has to you."

"So I'm slightly above average. He's met plenty of above average people. You."

"What, me? Really?"

"He compliments you, in a roundabout way, doesn't he?"

"I guess…but that's the thing, you see. That he knows plenty of above-average people. So why you?"

"He didn't want a friend, he wanted a flat-share."

"Initially, yeah. But…look, John, you didn't know him before."

"I doubt he was much different."

"He was worse."

I smiled. "You're having me on."

"Seriously. He did drugs."

I nodded uncomfortably. "He…told me."

"I don't know how much he told you, but it was _bad_. You're a doctor, you know what it does to people. If he had kept going at that rate he would have killed himself."

"The fact he detoxed around when he met me means nothing."

Lestrade sighed. "You're trying to rationalize being mad at him."

"And I can't, because it's irrational?"

"Parts of it."

That stung a little, but I stood my ground. "Explain."

"He cares about you. Later that night, when all this started, Donovan and I were going over the security camera footage. He was willing to risk his life for you."

"And fifteen other people."

"'There's no such thing as heroes, John, and if there were I wouldn't be one,'" he quoted, mouth quirking up at one end at my astonishment that he was quoting verbatim from my blog. "Yes, I remember that. Do you get it now? He didn't care as much about those fifteen people as much as he did you."

"Small comfort."

"No it isn't! Why are you so determined to stay mad at him?"

"He makes it very easy."

"Yeah, well…" Lestrade looked at me with a harrowed, tired expression. "You got me there. I'm just saying…you…he's good for you. And he's…happier…around you. So just-just give him a chance, okay? I did, and…it worked. Sort of. It's getting there."

"We'll see," I said curtly. I blinked several times. Did I want to? What if he stayed mad? Why did I even care?

"Lestrade?" I asked.

"Yeah?"

"I need to get drunk immediately."

He smiled, sympathetic without being overbearing. "Thought you didn't drink."

"Only on special occasions."

"Then that can be arranged."


	7. Aberration

The flat was normal again. Well, maybe tidier than usual, but still…_normal. _Sherlock's belongings had been moved back in: his coat was on a chair; the Union Jack pillow was on the bookshelf, which was now crammed to nearly bursting, papers starting to spill out and books stacked sideways so as to maximize efficiency. The infamous Baker Street Filing System was back in business.

"Well?"

He turned around. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway, beaming. "I asked them to put your things back just like they used to be. Do you like it?"

He forced a smile. It faded as he looked around the room again, realizing that in a few weeks all of John's stuff was going to be gone, along with the man himself. Out of his life.

The scary thing was that he wasn't quite sure how he felt about that.

"I…" He snapped out of it with a shake of his head. "Yeah. They did a good job."

"Are you alright, Sherlock? You seem a bit distracted," she said, with a maternal concern.

"I'm…fine."

Mrs. Hudson had always had a certain intuition for when he was lying about his well-being. He didn't know how she did it; there was nothing he outwardly projected that could give the merest suggestion he was lying. He didn't believe in woman's intuition. There was no such thing. Even so, she was looking up at him skeptically.

"I know you two are going through a bit of a rough patch," she said, lowering her voice. "Don't worry. It'll pass."

"We're not _going through a rough patch_, he's just being ridiculous! It's not my problem, anyway."

"He's rather fond of you, you know. You should have seen him pining when you were-"

"That's _enough_, Mrs. Hudson," he snapped, spitting the words. She looked hurt. He didn't care; what he said was true. Come next Friday it would be final; John was leaving. Mrs. Hudson was never one to let wounded pride stand in the way of saying what was on her mind. Instead, she crossed her arms and planted her feet so resolutely in the doorway that he didn't want to slam it in her face; the door would have shattered.

"Now, Sherlock, you're being childish. John's getting married. Don't go out of your way to spoil it for him. Just make up! You obviously care about each other-"

All right, he was done here.

"Goodnight to you too, Mrs. Hudson." He stalked off to his room and really did slam the door this time. It was incredibly satisfying.

Hours later, after he had missed getting a crumpled up piece of paper in the bin exactly seventy three times and had gone over his fake identity thrice, he heard the door open and John's footsteps thump unsteadily up the stairs. _Drunk,_ he thought to himself idly, sitting up and nearly knocking over a book about card counting on his nightstand. _But not _too _drunk. Drunk enough that I'm probably going to regret this. _

John was leaning against the sofa, eyes reddened slightly, face flushed. Interestingly, his muscle coordination seemed to be only slightly sub-par. He had sat on the left hand side of the bartender, given the stain on the outside of the cuff on his right sleeve.

"Er," Sherlock said, a little too loudly. "Um. Hi."

"Hi."

They stood in silence for a few seconds, before John lurched forward in the general direction of the bathroom, went in, and closed the door. After a minute there was a loud splattering sound. s

Okay. Fine. Whatever. They could talk later, after the poker game. He had found Adair frequented the International Club, a notoriously exclusive place. They had fake IDs and disguises all ready to go. The game was on.

He wouldn't get much sleep tonight, he mused, oddly placated. Good. If he didn't sleep, he couldn't dream.


	8. Intrigue

"So…blackjack," I muttered out of the side of my mouth, surveying the crowded tables with unease. Sherlock's face was impassive, though unrecognizable. He had put on a pencil thin mustache, blond wig, and slightly disturbing lack of expression that somehow looked wrong on this new face. I was apparently forgettable enough as I was; it was unlikely anyone would recognize me if they saw me again. "I don't know."

"I thought we agreed on poker?" Sherlock muttered back.

"We'll probably learn more if we split up, we don't know what he was good at." The momentary flicker of his expression told me all I needed to know about what was going on behind that cold mask-he had thought I was suggesting splitting up because I wanted to keep as far away from him as was possible. Well, I was still mad, obviously, but…well, not _that _mad. I mean, that would be…I don't know, sort of below the belt. _He deserves it,_ said a sneaky voice in my head, but I pushed it away. The important thing right now was teamwork. I was wearing a brown corduroy jacket- I only owned one piece of really formal clothing. _I'm going to need to go tuxedo shopping soon…_I shook my head incrementally. I didn't even know if she was going to say yes. _Of course she will, _said the sneaky voice again. _How do you think Sherlock's going to feel about that?_

_Alright, that's ENOUGH,_ I told myself. Really. I needed to focus. "What do you think?" I asked out of the corner of my mouth, taking a sip of ginger ale-alcohol was the last thing I needed right now, and this looked close enough to beer that no one would be able to tell the difference. I still had a bit of a hangover. The bright lights were hurting my eyes.

"Pick a table with a varied demographic; a reasonably smart person with a gambling problem would win enough times to acquire a reputation."

I turned around, but he was already weaving through the crowd; a hodge-podge mix of well dressed men and women with money to burn and time to waste. The night crowd. They were a noisy, exclusive, and generally drunk population. I wondered, briefly, what the hell I was doing among them, before gathering my courage and finding a table with three other players. One was a slim blonde lady wearing a _very_ low-cut dress. She was twirling a strand of hair around her finger in a coy sort of way, not at all consistent with her sharp blue eyes. The one on her right was a kid, probably barely out of college, with spiky brown hair and a permanently surprised look on his face, probably due to his exaggeratedly arched eyebrows. The third one at the table was an elderly lady-the main reason I had chosen this table. She looked like a regular. She seemed to know her way around the club, and I heard her refer to the bartender by name.

We played a few rounds of blackjack. I lost some, won some. The kid with the eyebrows-I think he had introduced himself as Dan-was better than I thought he would be. After we had all gotten comfortable, I decided to try some small talk.

"Okay, I'll stand. Dan-where'd you go to college?"

He looked up so quickly you would have thought I had asked him what he planned to do with the five of spades up his sleeve. There was, by the way, an actual five of spades up his sleeve. I wasn't about to call the poor sod out, though, he looked terrified. The stakes weren't very high, anyway. It was obvious Anne-as the elderly lady requested we call her-was much better than any of us, but she was holding back deliberately.

"Er, I, uh, applied to Oxford, but I'm, uh, in my third year at Cambridge. Ha ha."

I raised my eyebrows. "Wow. Impressive."

The blond, Monika ("That's with a 'k", _yah_,"), leaned forward suggestively. "Ooh," she said, smiling, "A _scholar_, are we? I like the men that can carry a conversation."

"Ah. Ha ha. Your, uh, your dress is slipping."

_So's the accent, _I thought. I've met Swedish people. I know what they're supposed to sound like. "I knew this kid," I continued. "Friend of a friend, his son-who applied to Oxford. Nice guy, about your age. I think his name was Robert Adair."

"Oh!" interjected Anne. "Oh, my, do you mean William Adair? He used to come here quite often-brilliant child, very good at poker. He cost me quite the pretty penny! Whatever happened to him?"

Dan cocked his head. "I read in the uh, the paper the other day that he was murdered!"

"Really?" I said, feigning a mixture of shock and schadenfreude. It's harder than it looks.

"_Yah_," added Monika meaningfully. "The police are mystified."

"How sad," said Anne, shaking her head. "I wonder what they'll do about him still owing Sebastian money."

"Sorry?" I asked, perking up, and then remembering too late that I wasn't supposed to be that interested. "Um, I mean, is that…how do they usually handle that?"

"Oh, there's some procedure, I'm not sure."

"Who's Sebastian?" said Dan.

"But I didn't tell you about him yet!" said Anne, sounding as this was some sort of critical oversight. I leaned forward, not wanting to miss a word. This was getting interesting.

"Sebastian's probably the best player here. Very mysterious fellow, though. No one even knows if that's his real name. Poor William was one of the few that could hold his own against him."

I wanted to hear more, but I felt my phone, which was on vibrate, ring three times. I didn't have to take it out to know who was calling. That was Sherlock's signal-meet back at the bar, last seat. I ignored it. This could be important information.

"And so this Sebastian…is he usually here on Saturday nights?"

"He doesn't seem to really have a pattern-he just pops up whenever it's convenient for him. I've heard rumors he's a wealthy businessman."

"Interesting," said Monika, raising one waxed eyebrow.

My phone went off again, three times in a row, each ring lasting about five seconds.

Okay, now he was just trying to annoy me.

"Do you know if-" I began.

Then it rang, three times, _again_. My heart skipped a beat, because now I recognized the pattern:

_Dot-dot-dot, dash-dash-dash, dot-dot-dot._

_S.O.S._


	9. Broken

"_What_?" I hissed at the man in front of me, currently going by the name of Terry Sigerson.

He looked up dully. "Oh. Hi. You took your time."

"I couldn't just get up and leave!"

"Speaking of which, we should really be going. Like, now."

"And you thought the best way to tell me that was-"

"Signaling you, yes."

There was a silence, while we both looked at each other. Him, with a sort of bland indifference and me with infuriation. I'd _had_ it with this _prick_, his stupid know-it-all superiority and his dragging me into things I'd rather keep out of, and the mess he'd made of the flat within a few short days of moving back in after lying to his best friend and everyone who knew him about being _dead_ for _three bloody years_, and his _complete_ lack of understanding about how much every single day of those three years _hurt_, even when I wasn't thinking about it, the guilt was still there in the back of my mind, I _knew_ it was irrational, and that just made it worse. How empty and futile everything seemed, how two weeks afterwards, after receiving the prescription for Prozac and confirming my fear that I was losing it…I contemplated downing the whole bottle and just ending it all.

"All right," I said, keeping my voice down with difficulty. "Okay. Fine. _I'm _leaving, you do whatever you want with the case. I don't care. Bye. Good luck."

I slammed my glass down and walked off. Peoples' heads turned, but I kept going. I looked back, once, because I just couldn't help myself.

He was texting. _Texting._


	10. Lurking in Shadows

Sherlock looked down at his phone, heart rate quickening. That had backfired in the worst possible way, and now John had no idea how much trouble he was in.

_Get back here, now._

_-SH_

He waited. No answer.

_I know you can read this. This is ridiculous, John, REPLY._

_-SH_

Suddenly a horrifying thought occurred to him; they had gotten there first. No. It couldn't be. The two men were still at the back of the room, still watching him carefully. He recognized one; a short, fat, Indian thug with a handlebar mustache. There were a lot of those, yes, but he clearly remembered giving that scar on his cheek to him. A little consolation prize.

He looked incredibly awkward in a suit, which, by the way, was about two inches too short at the cuffs. Judging by the bloodstain on his shirt he had been busy very, very recently, and right now he was staring at Sherlock with jaundiced eyes, making his disguise seem pitifully insubstantial. Southeast Asian muscle-for-hire seemed to be becoming something of a fad nowadays. The other one, by contrast, was tall, standing so the shadows enveloped him almost completely. Sherlock couldn't see his face. That bothered him.

_John, please. Are you still there?_

_-SH_

His phone vibrated, making his hands shake. You know. Because the phone was vibrating. He wasn't afraid or anything. Not yet.

The reply, characteristically, was short and to the point:

_Yeah._

_You're in danger. Don't call a cab, don't call attention to yourself, just get back here now. _

_-SH_

I looked at the message, not quite comprehending. I was in danger? From what? I was standing on a street corner, trying to hail a cab. It was ten. Not even that late yet.

Maybe this was another ploy. But something about this was making me uneasy. Maybe he was in trouble, too.

That settled it. I put my phone back in my pocket and headed back towards the International. It was only two blocks away. I hadn't been able to get very far, because…well…some part of me detested the rest for just leaving him like that.

My mobile beeped. Again.

_DON'T LOOK BEHIND YOU._

_-SH_

I hammered out a reply.

_Okay. Be there in a minute._

I set off at a perfectly regular pace. _Just a guy_, I thought to myself as the blood pounded in my ears. The back of my neck prickled uncomfortably. I was being watched. _Just a regular bloke, no cause for suspicion. _

_Nothing to hide._


	11. Tactful Deceit

"All right, seriously, wh-"

"We're being followed. Well, _I'm_ being followed, anyway, there were two people inside watching me and now they're gone. I don't know what that means but you have to stay close, all right, did you notice anything on your way here?"

"N-"

"Of course you didn't," he hissed furiously, pacing in wild circles. We were in an alley out the side entrance of the International. Sherlock had taken off his disguise. I had never seen him this agitated. "They would be careful, wouldn't they, but _how did they know we would be here?_"

"Maybe they didn't," I said. "I heard something about this man Adair used to play with, apparently he was the only one who could hold his own against him. I'm not sure if that's _relevant_, but it's all I got."

"Name."

"Sebastian."

He came to a dead halt. "Full name, John, there's a lot of Sebastians," he said slowly.

"No one knows."

"You don't think-"

"Moran? Possibly. Oh, of course it is. Of _course_ it is! How could I have been such an idiot? The man tracks me all over the world and I think he's going to have trouble finding me in London?"

"So now what?"

"You have to-go to Sarah's, now. And-pretend you never knew I was alive, if anyone asks. Not-not that anyone will."

"They'll come after me, you mean?"

"Most probably."

"Then I have to stay."

He looked up from pacing with a momentary gleam of hope in his eyes that felt like twisting the knife. "Why?"

"They don't care about me, they want you. Even if they do try to use me against you it's probably better if we can keep an eye on each other."

He looked away, the gleam extinguished. "Right. It's…only logical. Of course."

"Yes."

There was an awkward silence, broken by a rustle of movement. We whirled around.

It was Monika, the not-Swede, blocking the alleyway.

"Oh, hello, John," she said, blinking slowly, all trace of an accent gone. "The club closed half an hour ago."

"Oh. We should probably get going, then."

She smiled easily, those bright blue eyes glittering mischievously in the streetlights. "Now, I'm not going to ask what, exactly, you two were doing down a dark alley this late at night, alone, but-"

We opened our mouths simultaneously to protest, but she held up a hand for silence.

"No, no need to deny it. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about, John…and, I presume, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

There was an almost inaudible intake of breath from behind me. I stepped in front of him. "I don't who you're working for, but if you so much as _touch_ him-"

She laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "Aw, that's adorable. I can see why you like him," she said, nodding at Sherlock. "But that's just the thing…John…Watson. If you want to come out of this alive, stay away from him. You seem like an intelligent man. Do the smart thing." She winked indulgently and sauntered away.

I was left staring after her, mouth half open. Sherlock started to leave.

"Looks like Sarah has competition," he said, not looking back.

"Oh, shut up," I replied, but, despite the jab, I was smiling.


	12. Caring Hurts

I rolled over in my bed to look at my alarm clock. It was two in the morning. I couldn't sleep. Neither, apparently, could Sherlock; I could hear him on his violin. The violin. The Stradivarius.

_You may keep my violin_.

I had taken it out, once, after that night. I tried to play it. I couldn't not for my life, and definitely not the way he was right then. I couldn't place the music. It sounded familiar, and haunting, and…alone. Much the way I felt right now. I was about to propose to my girlfriend. I didn't want to die not knowing if she would say yes. Actually…

Sarah. She would be back from Edinburgh today; she had been away to visit her sister. I had met her. Emily. Nice girl, but not as brave as Sarah, or half as intelligent. She didn't know Sherlock was alive.

The funny thing is that I…did…care about him. I didn't particularly want him to die. I didn't really hate him, I was just…frustrated.

There was a thin beam of moonlight filtering in from the window, illuminating the bedside table in a lonely white glow. I had left the cap open on the Prozac. I hadn't taken it in three days. Maybe I _was_ in denial, but I didn't care. I didn't want to feel dependent on pills for my happiness, and I needed to prove to myself that I wasn't.

The music had stopped. On a sudden impulse, I swung my legs over the bed and tiptoed down the stairs.

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, asleep. It was a strange image, him…sleeping. It didn't seem to fit, somehow. His violin was discarded on the floor, case still open.

He looked awfully small, even though he more than filled out the entire sofa. His feet hung over one side.

"I'm going to Sarah's," I said out loud. "I'll be back, though. Soon."

Obviously, he didn't respond. What had I been expecting? He was _asleep. _

I turned the light off. Before I did, though, I checked very carefully that his chest was still rising and falling in that slow, rhythmic way that indicates the breather is asleep. And alive.

The truth of the matter is that I didn't want to lose him again.


	13. Wired

_Knock, knock, kno-_

The door flew open. Sherlock Holmes normally had a cat-like air of cleanliness about him, so it was strange to see him just out of bed-hair sticking out every which way, dark circles under his eyes, and, judging by the state of his clothes, he had fallen asleep in them.

"_What do you_-oh. Lestrade. It's you."

The DI cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah. Morning."

"It's five A.M."

"Well aware. Did you find anything yesterday?"

"It's _five in the morning._"

"Yes, you texted me at four to tell me you were being followed. And Sebastian Moran had something to do with it." Lestrade let himself in, allowing the row of people behind him to follow.

"And so…you…" He was staring at the seemingly unending line of men and women in formal suits and pencil skirts in uncharacteristic befuddlement.

"Did what it's in my job description to do, yeah."

"Oh," he said, sounding deeply offended, realizing. "Oh, you went to _Mycroft?_ That's a new low."

"Around the clock supervision until this comes to an end or you owe him two more Christmas dinners. I didn't ask what that meant, so I'm assuming it's some sort of euphuism." The flat was now so full that it was violating fire codes. Sherlock looked like a defiant child, but even he couldn't argue with upwards of thirty assorted members of several Secret Services. And possibly the gravity of the situation had finally convinced him that this was necessary; being in a constant state of dependence does wonders for your superiority complex.

"I'm almost there," he retorted.

"Right. INTERPOL couldn't catch this guy, and you actually think-"

"That I can? Yes, because he's only willing to come out and play for me at this point. He just made a mistake. Will Adair? That was him."

"Why?" Lestrade didn't have time for skepticism. _Just roll with the punches._

"I don't know yet, I'm working on it!" He looked around the room as if just realizing the ridiculous volume of people in it. "First, move this-" He made a sweeping, dismissive gesture- "out of here. I need to think, they're breathing too loud."

"Two stay with you at all times, two tail John, the rest monitor the flat."

"Fine. Whatever. Just-" He repeated the sweeping gesture. "Out. Now. Isn't there some sort of _law_ against this many people in one flat, _Detective Inspector_ Lestrade?"

"Isn't there some sort of law against indoor firearm practice?"

Sherlock flashed him a look of annoyance. "You know about that?"

"Are you joking? We make people answer complaints from 221A as punishment for mouthing off."

"Well I'm glad to know you've _finally_ found a use for me. How gratifying."

Okay, scratch that bit about the superiority complex. It had actually gotten worse. Was that even possible?

He sighed. "All right, you heard him. Everyone out." He consulted his phone for the list Mycroft had sent him. "Scott, Perez, Bell, and Vertrue, you can stay."

"I'm going to go wake John-he'll be overjoyed to know the flat's been taken over by Her Majesty's Secret Service."

"Is everything alright?" asked Lestrade worriedly. "You know, between you and-"

"FINE." He thundered up the stairs.

"O-okay then," muttered Lestrade under his breath. _I'm not asking because I'm worried about you, but John's my friend. He deserves better._

There was a short silence while he fiddled with the door.

"Er. Lestrade?"

"Yeah?" he said, already starting up the stairs.

Sherlock was trying and failing to open the door. "He's locked it," he grunted, throwing himself against it. "Here-help-one, two, three-"

Under their combined weight, it gave way. Sherlock flicked on the light. "John, get up, we have guests!"

The figure in the bed didn't move. He had his back to them, curled up in a ball. The sheets were drawn up to his neck.

"John…" said Lestrade a little louder.

"Lestrade," interrupted Sherlock sharply.

"Hmm?"

"On his desk."

"On his…the pill bottle."

"It's open."

"He's not breathing-_oh, _shit-"

Lestrade would never forget what happened next, not as long as he lived.

Sherlock strode forward, put a hand on John's still shoulder, and pulled him over to his front…only to find that his front was not there.

The skin had been stripped away from his face and torso. There was blood all over the sheets. The Detective Inspector had never seen that much blood in his life, ever, anywhere. It had soaked through them, staining the long, slender fingers clutching at the patchwork of red and white. His skull grinned up at them, eyeballs still in place. The rest of his organs were still intact. Even his heart. Even his _stomach_, if that's what that pale pink, quivery looking thing sitting below it was. With a sickening churn of his stomach he realized bits of skin were all over the pillow, and rolls of it, like pencil shavings, were dispersed behind the bed.

_John, no, please, God no…_

Then the smell hit. It is hard to describe the smell of rotting flesh, but suffice to say it took him all his self-control not to vomit. His eyes watered, and he grabbed at the doorframe for support.

"This…isn't…possible," said Sherlock slowly

"What," gasped Lestrade. "What the _hell_-_"_

"No, I mean it really isn't possible! They didn't do their homework, look at those eyeballs! Wrong color, and the forehead is _much _too prominent-oh, this is really shoddy workmanship. They're trying to scare me! Ha! Someone's in for a surprise…"

His steely gray eyes were doing that flashing thing again, and he was pacing the floor and rubbing his hands together and _grinning his head off. _It wasn't normal, it wasn't _right. _

"What are you talking about?"

"Call him. John. I assume you have a mobile, right? Call him on it! Now!"

Lestrade did as he asked. Nothing was making any sense right now. He could almost feel his sanity fraying at the ends, like a worn rug that's been tossed around more times than it can handle. He fumbled for his phone and dialed the number. Someone picked up on the other end.

"Hello? John?"

"Hi," he answered sleepily, to the Inspector's immense relief and even greater confusion. "Lestrade, it's _five in the morning_."

Sherlock grabbed the phone. "John! Hello, yes it is. In about, oh, ten minutes, a police car will pull up in front of Sarah's apartment, assuming that's where you are. Was I right? Oh, good, excellent. Get in it, don't ask questions, and try not to panic."

He hung up and tossed him back the phone.

"Ten minutes?" said Lestrade, catching it. Eugh, there was blood all over it. "But Sarah lives halfway-"

The detective threw him a withering look. "You've obviously never been in a car with one of _Mycroft's_ people at the wheel. They could do it in seven. Go send one of them."

"But-what about-"

"Unless you stuffed all of them into one car, Lestrade, I doubt that-"

"They came in taxis!" he said, now slightly desperate to get one complete sentence that was somewhat coherent in. "It's my _car_!"

"I don't care."

"Is that normal?"

"Yes."

"No, not you, _that_. John-his-_its_ stomach. It's blue."

"No," said Sherlock, eyes narrowing. "No, that's not normal at all."

He leapt over to the side of the bed, rolling up his sleeves. "Downstairs, in the kitchen, third cabinet to your right, there's some knives. Bring me something small, preferably serrated. Muscle is tricky, stomach lining is trickier. Get someone to pick John up. And get me a different shirt, there's blood all over this one now."

"Third time this week, isn-"

"Shut up and do it, Lestrade, I don't have time for this."

The Inspector shook his head, wiped some sweat off his brow and headed back down the stairs. "Okay," he said, addressing the four remaining Secret Service people. "There's a corpse upstairs. No reason to panic, though, we're working on who it was and how they got there. Perez, get Sherlock a knife. Vertrue, go to…uh…"

"Applegarth Drive!" yelled Sherlock from upstairs. "There's an address! On the table! And could you hurry it up with my shirt, I've been up to my elbows in someone's chest cavity!"

The Secret Service agents looked up in shock and surprise.

"Don't," said Lestrade wearily. "Just…do what he says. Questions later."

He peeked into Sherlock's bedroom.

It was, as expected, a complete disaster area-clothes and jars with strange, _squishy_ things floating in them strewn in equal measure around the floor. There was a dartboard on the wall with a variety of lethally sharp looking knives stuck in it.

"Never mind about the knife, Perez!" he shouted, wrenching one out and snatching up a shirt as well.

Sherlock was pacing wildly. "Something's wrong," he muttered.

"Well, yes, there's a corpse on the bed pretending to be John."

"Besides that, I mean, there's the fact that these people want to kill me. They timed this so that John was out of the house, got someone who had the same hair and was about the same height, got it up here without anyone noticing, and ripped its skin off. Didn't even bother to clean the skin up, but I suppose they were somewhat pressed for time. This took planning, this took work, why go to all this trouble?"

"They-"

"You didn't even notice the signs of forced entry, did you," he said, unbuttoning his shirt faster than Lestrade thought was possible. "Here-give me that." He shrugged into the clean, dark purple shirt and discarded the blazer on the ground, rolling up his sleeves. "I thought you all couldn't get worse than you already were-"

"Yeah, thanks, I was going to say the same thing about you. Do you think maybe they're trying to scare you?"

"_No_, this is a little welcome back present because they're so happy to see me. Of course they're trying to scare me! Why, though, wouldn't they want the job over with? Maybe they wanted to see me suffer first. Wanted…to…see…oh. _Oh_."

He had gone still all of a sudden. That was either a very good sign or a very, very bad one. "What's wrong?"

"Everything," he breathed. "Knife. Give it here." Sherlock snatched it from his hand before he had time to even extend it and leaned over the body, sawing at the stomach lining.

Lestrade, despite what his olfactory senses were screaming at him, leaned in closer to see.

There was a tangled mess of wires in his stomach, and a little blue LED was flashing, giving the organ a ghostly blue glow.

"It's a bomb," whispered Sherlock, as if talking too loudly would set it off. "That's why. They're going to kill me anyway, they just wanted to be creative."

"Well?" said Lestrade, looking up at the detective. "Now what?"

"Either we die now or you call a bomb squad and evacuate the area. Whichever you prefer."

The game, as they say, was on.


	14. Running out of Time

Lestrade poked his head back into the room, eyes watering from the now festering smell. "Well?"

Sherlock was still pacing madly, mind going so fast it was long past forming coherent, logical phrases. He barely noticed

_But…how…could be that they…but…needed to know…John…left…two in the morning…five…choice…have to…motion sensors? Maybe…_

_Oh._

His head snapped up. "Did you just call for a bomb squad?"

"Yes, like you asked."

"Right, call them back, tell them not to come. False alarm."

"What-really?"

"_No_," he spat, "It's still a bomb, it could go off any second, get back in here and do what I tell you."

Resigned, the Inspector inched inside. Finally. He was stubborn, yes, but he got there eventually. He waited until he was done with the phone call before snatching the phone out of his unsuspecting hands.

"What are you doing?" asked Lestrade incredulously.

"Making a phone call."

"I can see that…"

Now if only he would shut up for five seconds.

"John, where are you?"

His voice sounded as though he had been put in a jar and shaken vigorously. "We-we're going at twenty-miles-over-the-speed-limit. We-should-be there in-five minutes."

"Okay. Listen to me."

There was a squeal of tires on the other end and someone inhaled sharply.

"No-no-left! Left!"

"John?"

"Yes, yeah, I'm listening…we almost hit a fence…just keep talking."

"The flat is being watched. That's the only possible way they could have known you left. Not all of it, just the door, otherwise we'd be dead already because they would see me having this conversation. If you come back now they might decide to kill us all. I'm not sure why they're waiting."

"So you need me to turn around?"

"Yes."

There was a long silence. "But…what about-"

"If I die there's nothing you can do about it, but it doesn't make sense that you have to, too. Think about it. There are people who need you-Sarah, Harry-you can't. Tell the driver to turn the car around."

"That'll be fun," he muttered. "Okay. Fine."

He hung up, tossed Lestrade the phone. "Call for a bomb squad, tell them to dress in business casual, carry any equipment they need in briefcases, and come in taxis, then call Mycroft and tell him we need to cut power to the flat for about three minutes when they get here."

"What about evacuating the area?"

"Can't risk it, we don't know what else they're watching. Besides, you'd have to leave the flat."

"How do you know they can't hear us?"

"We'd be dead already."

The DI nodded uneasily and made the calls.

"Why are they doing this, Sherlock?"

He thought about it for a few precious milliseconds before giving him the short answer. "Crime is common, logic is rare."

An even shorter answer, he gave to himself: he had no idea.

* * *

After an excruciatingly slow seven minutes, everything was in place. The bomb squad was waiting outside. Lestrade was on the phone with Mycroft's secretary. The bodyguards were pacing the flat as if nothing was wrong. They had pulled the blinds on all the windows.

"All right…" said Sherlock quietly, "…now."

The flat went pitch-dark. Sherlock fumbled for the torch he had placed on the side of the bed earlier. He grabbed the hand instead, accidentally, causing his stomach to drop to somewhere around his knees. Ridiculous. It was a dead body, he'd touched plenty of those.

He found the torch and switched it on, illuminating the room in an eerie white glow. The bomb squad pounded up the stairs.

"All right, gentlemen-" one of them cleared her throat pointedly-"and ladies, I can give you about three minutes. See what you can do."


	15. Betrayal

**Sorry, guys; this one's a bit sub-par. A lot sub-par. Sorry.**

I stumbled up the stairs. Somehow, the power had gone out. There were tense, murmured voices coming from upstairs. I fumbled around for the doorknob.

It was five thirty two exactly. Surely he had figured something out…

If he hadn't, I would never be able to forgive myself if I didn't try to help.

"Stop," came a voice from inside.

What the hell?

That wasn't Sherlock.

I had gotten such little sleep in the past few days that I only realized what he had said after I had hung up. It didn't make much sense at the time. All I knew was that he was in trouble. I instructed the driver to turn around and head to Baker Street. Quickly, please, there was no time to lose.

That was probably a mistake; the speedometer didn't dip below sixty the whole way there.

So now I was trying to get into my flat and there was someone on the other side of the door and it was most certainly not Sherlock. My hand went immediately for my mobile, but the voice spoke again.

"State your name and purpose."

That didn't sound like something a criminal would say.

"Er…John Watson. I live here?"

There were some rustling noises from inside. "John _H. _Watson?"

"Yes."

"M.D.?"

"Are there any other John Watsons that live here I'm unaware of?"

"It's him!" called the voice, presumably not at me.

My mobile, which I was about to call 9-9-9 on, rang. It was Sherlock. I frowned, then picked up.

"John. Step away from the door."

I did it without even thinking. "Okay. I did. Why? What's going on? Why is there someone in our flat?"

There was a short silence.

"Your flat," I corrected.

Another, long silence.

_Okay, that was mean. Sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that._

And for some reason I couldn't open my mouth and tell him.

"Yes. There is a bomb upstairs. You shouldn't have come. And now that I've told you that…"

"I'm not going to leave."

He sighed audibly. "Thirty more seconds."

"Okay."

"Stay on the line."

"Okay."

It was a horribly slow half a minute. Possibly one of the slowest half minutes of my life. Until, of course, the lights came back on.

I leaned against the door, noticing with surprise how fast my heart was beating. I hadn't even noticed.

"Can I come in now?"

"Yeah."

He hung up.

I pushed open the door to find four people inside; a short, stocky gentleman with clipped brown hair, two identical, enormous blond men with identical, permanent scowls, and a small, ethereal little woman with a briefcase. She was at once the least and most intimidating of all of them. I think it was her eyes. There's a word for them: glasz. A strange, glassy combination of blue, green and gray that would be attractive if they weren't slightly scary as well. They were all in formal business wear, which is what tipped me off.

"Do you all work for Mycroft Holmes?"

They nodded wordlessly.

Sherlock bounded down the stairs, followed closely by Lestrade and…more people.

This was getting to be a little much. I leave the guy alone for _three hours_…

"What were all of you doing in my bedroom?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Someone get him up to speed."

Lestrade filled me in on what had happened while I was gone, which helped to explain the disgusting smell wafting in from upstairs. The incognito bomb squad was ushered back out.

"Mycroft outdid himself," said Sherlock. "He turned out the power to all of NW2, which explains why they didn't blow it up immediately. And now we know where they are."

"Small comfort," pointed out Lestrade. "How did they know where _you_ were in the first place?"

Sherlock whirled around. "Who did you tell?"

Lestrade put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "No one, I swear."

He strode forward, eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Yeah, right. Who did you tell?"

"Just…just Donovan and Anderson…no, I trust them! They wouldn't-Sherlock!"

He rolled his eyes. "You told _Anderson?_"

"Yeah. He couldn't have let anything slip, though, not to anyone inside the force. He's on temporary leave."

"Really?" I asked. "Why?"

"Something about-his mother is ill, I don't know, I didn't ask!"

"Wait," I said. Something was becoming all too clear to me. "Wait. Anderson's mother died two years ago."

"No," said Lestrade, sounding devastated. "He-that can't be right. That isn't possible."

"I'm sorry," I said quietly.

"We need to talk," he muttered angrily, striding out of the room.

We followed.


	16. For Want of a Nail

**Sorry for making you all wait so long-I haven't dropped off the face of the earth, don't worry! I'm working on a sequel to this, and a sequel to the sequel (whew). I believe the technical terms are "plot bunny" and "schoolwork". I'm not dropping any hints about the sequel, certainly not that it will involve a certain very tall person in a black suit with an _unusual _amount of arms, nor that the sequel to the sequel will make any mention of a certain hacktivist group.**

_For want of a nail the shoe was lost._  
_For want of a shoe the horse was lost._  
_For want of a horse the rider was lost._  
_For want of a rider the battle was lost._  
_For want of a battle the kingdom was lost._  
___And all for the want of a horseshoe nail._

_"Bravery is the capacity to preform properly even when scared half to death."_

_-Omar Bradley (former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, ex-Army general, 1893-1981)_

"Explain yourself."

We had gotten hold of a conference room at the Yard's headquarters, quite a feat at this time of day. It was three hours later. Two of the bodyguards, Vertrue (the woman with the eyes) and Bell (or Scott-one of the heavyset twins, anyway) were standing guard outside the room.

Anderson was sitting at one end of the table, looking miserable. Donovan was sitting next to him. Lestrade was a few seats away, deflated. The life had gone out of him. I don't think he ever believed Anderson would stoop that low-to be honest, neither had I. He was, understandably, taking this hard. The poor guy looked like he needed a hug.

Sherlock was the one doing the questioning. He was leaning across the oblong table, radiating a strange mix of detachment and smug pleasure characteristic of a chemist happening upon a particularly interesting precipitate.

Anderson cleared his throat, a meaningless gesture because his voice shook anyway. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I really think you do," said Sherlock, eyes flashing. "Do you know what the bomb squad found in that body? Enough explosive material to take out the building. That may not sound like much. But it shows something. They don't want to kill anyone they don't have to."

"That doesn't mean they won't," I put in.

Anderson sighed shakily. "I didn't have any choice."

"You always have a choice," replied Sherlock harshly.

"They said they would kill Anne!"

Donovan's arm went around his small, hunched shoulders. Sherlock gave me a significant look: _really? After three years? _

I returned it steadily. _Things have changed. But not that much._

Anderson took a deep, shuddering breath, like he was suppressing a sob. "They…tortured her…in front of me. My wife." His voice broke as he looked up. Donavan stiffened a little at _my wife_, but did not remove her arm from his shoulders.

"What the hell was I supposed to do?"

No one said anything. No one knew what to say.

He rubbed at his eyes angrily. "I _was_ visiting someone," he said, directing the statement at Lestrade, who was sitting there in silent, dumbstruck horror. "At the hospital. Anne. She's dying and there's nothing anyone can do about it. And it's my fault. I could have told them sooner."

"But you didn't," I mused quietly, ashamed at having questioned his loyalty, even to myself. He was head of forensics for a reason, after all. There was apparently more to him than met the eye. "Thank you."

"Well, now that we're done wallowing in self pity-"

"His wife is dying, you bastard," said Donovan icily, glaring at him, along with the rest of us. Seriously. Now was not the time.

"And a few hours ago so was I. And Lestrade, and John, and the two people outside. Are any of us complaining? No. So let's move on to solid facts. We can still play this to our advantage."

"_Sherlock_." Lestrade was giving him a death glare to rival his own. Even he seemed cowed. Well, he shut up, anyway.

"Okay," I said, in a much gentler tone. "Anderson. Look at me. There's a lot at stake for everybody right now. We need you to play double agent, just until this is over."

"How long is that going to be?" Lestrade asked. "We can't ask him to just wait it out indefinitely."

"We're not," said Sherlock. "I can get a working plan of action to you in twenty-four hours. Probably not even that much." His phone beeped at the same time mine did.

"I got a text," I announced. "From Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson has been moved to a safer location. He's booked us hotel rooms. We should probably get going."

"I didn't mention one thing," said Anderson. "They know where I am."

"That doesn't surprise me," said Sherlock flatly.

"No, I mean…" He took out a small, metallic disk and laid it on the table. "They asked me to send a sign if you…"

I looked up in alarm as Lestrade and Donovan half rose from their respective seats, sensing danger. "So they know where we are?"

He nodded dismally. "I'm so sorry."

I darted to the door. "The guards. They're gone. Where are the guards?"

Sherlock got up. "They're in the building." It was clear he wasn't talking about Mycroft's agents.

"Already? How do we know?"

"I asked the guards to circle the floor every two minutes. It's…" he checked his watch. "Eight-thirty five. They should have been back ten minutes ago. It's only a matter of time before they find this conference room."

"We have to get out of here, _now_."

Donovan hauled Anderson out of his seat. "I have an idea."

She strode to the opposite wall and pulled the fire alarm.

_BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP-_

The hallway was suddenly inundated with people.

_BEEP, BEEP, BEEP-_

"_We can use the back entrance!"_ she shouted over the deafening noise. "_They'll never find us in all this!"_

"_Good!"_ said Sherlock, pleased that someone other than himself had thought of something clever. "_Let's go."_

I was at the bottom of the stairs before anyone else, so I was first to trip over the body.

It was Vertrue, the one with the strange eyes. They were open, staring blankly at the sky, as she was lying half in the building and half out of it. It was raining outside. Some of it had landed in her eyes and traced down her cheek, like she was crying. For who?

_BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP-_

I didn't even know her first name. God, I hoped the other one was okay.

Sherlock bumped into me. "What are you DOING?" he shouted over the alarm. It was muffled slightly down here, but no less earsplitting. "We have to go!"

"We can't just leave her here!"

"Yes. People might trip, you're right." He dragged her out of the way by her heels and held the door for everyone else while Lestrade hailed a cab.

I couldn't take my eyes off her. Maybe she was a mom. Maybe she was married. Maybe she had promised she'd be home for dinner tonight…

Sherlock forcibly shoved me out the door. I was hustled into the cab. "Wait, wait, _wait!"_

"What?"

"I need to-Lestrade."

He ran over. "Yeah?"

"What about all of you?"

He smiled fondly, ruffled my hair in an avuncular way. "We'll be fine. Don't worry. Just _go._"

He shut the door and the cab roared off, rain smacking at the windows like bullets.

The silence of the cab was a welcome respite from the disorganized chaos of the police station. But it also gave me time to think, which is when it hit me that I was not as freaked out as I should have been. I was in a cab with a madcap, socially inept but brilliant detective, on the way to a hotel because a global criminal organization wanted us dead and nowhere else was safe. This did not happen to normal people. This was so far out of the realm of "normal" that it was getting ridiculous, and it was becoming normal for me. Was that bad? That I was actually getting used to all this?

No. The truth was I…I _liked_ this life, and I liked having someone around that understood me completely, that I could depend on, that would be strong for me when I couldn't for myself. And I had broken that. Okay, yes, he hadn't exactly been amiable these past few days, but had I?

I had never wanted our friendship back to normal more than I had then. It was more than a want. It was more like an actual physical hurt.

"Sherlock?" I ventured. He was staring blankly outside, watching the rain trace quicksilver lines down the window.

"You should probably get some sleep," he said, monotone. "It's a long drive."

"Okay."

"It's alright if you're scared," he said, turning to face me.

"I didn't say I was."

"I know."

I rubbed my face with my hands. "Look, I-"

But he was leaning against the opposite window, very unconvincingly pretending to be asleep.

_And all for the want of a horseshoe nail._


	17. Before the Dawn

We checked into the hotel room under the false names we used for the poker club and were shown up to our room. I opened the door.

"Wow."

It was gorgeous. It was…I had only seen these kinds of hotel rooms in brochures. The furniture was Victorian, self indulgent, and overbearing. For some reason Mycroft had decided we needed a _suite_ for nothing more than an overnight stay-there was a kitchen, with granite countertops and a dishwasher. There was a chandelierin the sitting room. It matched the curtains. _Everything_ matched the curtains, which somehow managed to look pretentious. They made me feel like I should have dressed nicer and probably shouldn't be dripping all over the rug. Even the complementary chocolate on the coffee table looked expensive.

Sherlock was unimpressed. He took a seat at the gleaming marble desk where they had already put his laptop. "Show off," he muttered, opening it.

I sat directly behind him on the couch, so I could see his expression in the mirror above the desk. He looked up, so he could see mine. Indirect eye contact. It worked out nicely.

"Don't mind me," he said sardonically as I gaped at my surroundings, "Feel free to bask in the glorious excess."

"He knows we're staying for only one night, right?"

"Obviously. Look at this." He tossed me an envelope that had been sitting on top of his laptop. Bloody hell, even the envelope looked exorbitant. I tore it open.

"'Try to contain your excitement and keep the room in one piece, please,'" I read, trying not to laugh. "He said my gun is in the safe, and your violin is under the table."

"I expect it is."

I put the envelope down and stared outside. Rain still lashed at the windows, giving the room an eerie blue glow, like a haunted mansion out of a horror movie.

"What do you think they're planning?" I asked tentatively.

"In all probability they're looking for us right now," he said, with a matter-of-fact air. "Getting closer by the minute."

"Right," I said quietly, looking down at my hands clasped in my lap. Completely steady. I glanced at his reflection in the mirror. If he hadn't been sitting down already I would say he was about to collapse-the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced, his face gaunt, his pallor more evident than usual. It was a little alarming.

"Are you okay?

"Why shouldn't I be?" The weariness he said it with belied his words, not to mention that I knew he was lying anyway. Sherlock will cheerfully work himself to death if it means he solves the case; now, lives were at stake as well. He looked miserable.

"I'm ordering room service."

"Good for you."

"You have to eat something, Sherlock."

"I did eat. Six hours ago. I had a biscuit. It was stale."

"Something _substantial_." Then I had an idea.

"Table salt," I said.

His reflection looked up at the mirror and cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

"Table salt. What's the chemical formula for it?"

"…NaCl. Why, is my sodium intake too high, _doctor_?"

"How about glucose?"

He seemed to be relaxing slightly now. "You're insulting my intelligence. C6H12O6."

"Ethyl alcohol?"

We went back and forth like this until I ran out of chemical formulas. He seemed genuinely at ease by then.

"All right," he said, rubbing his hands together, as a flash of lightning ignited the room. "My turn. Moran and his associates are resorting to riskier and riskier methods. Now both of us have disappeared. They can only conclude that we've realized this and are going into hiding."

"Right. So they'll be on the watch for anything we try to pull."

"Yes, exactly. They will analyze anything we do to its furthest possible conclusion. We can use that."

There was a momentary pause in the conversation as we realized, somewhat awkwardly, that we had been talking for twenty minutes now without the faintest trace of hostility.

"Right," I said. "So…how, exactly?"

He leaned back in his chair. "I don't know, I haven't finished talking yet. What are they expecting?"

"I don't know."

"Yes you do. Think."

"Well…we couldn't try something at the flat, they'd be expecting that."

His eyebrows knitted together, then Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Yes. Good."

"What do you mean, 'good'?"

He didn't respond, being much too busy spinning in slow, hypnotic circles. Apparently he had just realized the swivel chair _swiveled. _"Sherlock? Are you listening to me?"

"Mmm…no, not really." He abruptly launched himself out of the chair and at the complimentary notepad. He didn't look up for ten minutes.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew the doorbell rang, prompting me to fall out of the sofa, flail around, and knock the lamp off the table and into the trash can, where I had put Mycroft's message.

"Room service," said a muffled voice.

"No one's home!" shouted Sherlock in the general direction of the door. I threw a pillow at him and answered it instead.

"Here," I said, handing him a steaming mug of tea and a forlorn little slice of cake on a plate. "Eat it or I take your notepad."

He ate it grudgingly-a small victory for me, but a victory nonetheless. "Any progress?"

"Data, data, data, can't make bricks without clay," he muttered. "Well, technically you can, but that's not really the point. The _point-_" He threw the notepad at the door in frustration-"is that Anderson hasn't emailed me yet with information and so far all I have is theories. That's not going to fix _anything_."

_Not going to fix anything_. He had meant that, hadn't he? He wasn't worried solely about solving the case anymore.

"Anderson's wife is going to die, isn't she," I said quietly. I knew I wasn't making anything better. It was my job to know the right thing to say in these situations. I couldn't help it, though-he had been right, in the taxi. I _was _scared, scared to death that someone was going to get hurt and it would be my fault.

He turned around in the chair, leaned forward, elbows perched on his knees. He looked sinister, the chair suddenly seeming several times too tall for his already gaunt figure.

"John. Listen. Everyone dies. You should know this already. Sometimes there is nothing anyone can do."

"Not this time!"

"You're being ridiculous," he said irritably. I didn't mind. He looked exhausted, even more so by the harsh light of his laptop.

"You look tired," he said, after a short interlude of busied clicking. "Lie down, go to sleep. I need you to be focused."

"For what?"

"I'm not sure yet. Just…give me a few hours. I can have something together by six."

He shut the Mac and took his violin out of his case. "I'm going to play a little. You mind?"

"No, not at all."

He started to play. I recognized it, surprisingly enough-most of what he usually played was either improvisation or classical music.

_Who Wants to Live Forever. Queen. _Appropriately…heartrending. It was melancholy and beautiful and, in light of the current situation, a little overwhelming.

I turned over on the sofa, trying to hide the fact that my eyes were filling up. The music paused.

"You alright?"

"Yeah," I lied, throat tightening, blinking hard. How could he _tell_? "Fine. Keep playing."

He resumed. Somewhere along the way I suppose I drifted off.

_Who waits forever anyway…_


	18. The Empty House

"Okay," I whispered. "Everything's ready."

"Good. Can you see the window?"

"Yeah."

"And the dummy?"

"Yes."

I was still having a hard time believing it was, in fact, made of wax, probably because sometimes the real Sherlock goes still like that, too, and gets an eerily blank look in his eyes. Like he sees something no one else can. He would be talking a mile a minute, hardly pausing for breath, and then just…stop. It was those moments of realization, those brilliant flashes of inspiration, that he lived for. He had evidently had one a few hours previously while I was asleep. We had a plan. Anderson had followed through-Moran and his associates were planning Sherlock's assassination tonight. It would be a quick, clean affair, nothing showy, just a neat, lead-less homicide for the police and another life lost for the world.

I was crouched in the shadows of flat opposite us, scanning the street for the faintest signs of suspicious activity, ready to run. Every time a cab flew by my heart skipped a beat. I had my finger on the "call" button on my mobile, Lestrade's number already punched in. The flat was unoccupied, thankfully, and provided a perfect view of our flat's window across the street. We were keeping it illuminated-a target that was impossible to miss, a little pinprick of yellow contrasting the relative dark of the surrounding buildings. It was well past midnight. Everything was in place. I had taken my gun from the safe. Mycroft's agents had been courteous enough to provide me with a full clip-perhaps something of an ill omen for tonight.

Then, movement. A car pulled up on the street near 221B. Sherlock gave a little intake of breath to indicate that he had seen it as well. A man and a woman got out. The man was carrying a duffel bag.

For a moment nothing happened. We waited, straining to see which way they would go-and then they walked to the corner and crossed the street.

Wait, what? That wasn't supposed to happen!

"_Don't_," cautioned Sherlock, the tension in his voice seeping through the calm. "Shut up and stay absolutely still."

"But-"

"Your life could depend on it. Just trust me."

"Okay."

They opened the door to the building I was in. My heart was pounding. I could hear their footsteps on the stairs.

"I think I should-"

"No," he hissed. "Wait."

The door creaked open. The lady walked in-it was Monika. I tried to be as still as possible, acutely aware of how dusty the room was. My nose was itching.

I sneezed.

She whirled towards the sound, leveled her handgun at Sherlock's head, and pulled the trigger.


	19. Forgiveness

I flinched. The impact of the bullet had actually taken his head off. It rolled a few inches and settled, rocking gently, a few inches from my hand. I didn't dare breathe.

She cocked her head, sensing that something wasn't right; handguns didn't do that. She took a few steps forward, picked up the head, close enough that I could count her lashes-

I grabbed her wrist, covered her mouth, and forcefully shoved her back against the wall, dropping my gun (the safety was on, don't worry) and instead twisting hers out of her hand, flicking the safety on and dropping that too. She forced her other hand up, the one holding the head. Her eyes widened.

"Yes," I muttered, patting her down for any weapons she might have been hiding, "We can discuss that later. I'm calling the police. Stay where you are, please, they should be here shortly."

The door burst open , and I got my first good look at Sebastian Moran.

He was tall, grizzled, and had flinty eyes. Hard, cold, and distant. His face was marred by a single scar stretching from his right eye all the way down to his opposite cheek. I wondered how he had gotten it.

He put down the duffel bag, the far away look in his eyes replaced by a predatory, almost clinical viciousness. "I advise you to put her down."

"That's going to be a problem," I replied, straining to try and pick up the gun while still keeping my eyes on Moran.

"You don't know whom you are dealing with," he said, stepping forward, looking as though he could calmly snap my neck with his bare hands if I was so stupid as to grant him the pleasure. "Really. Put her down."

"Do you know who lives in the flat you're attacking?"

His expression twitched momentarily. "Someone knows a bit more than they're letting on."

"Sherlock Holmes," said my phone, answering my question. Moran actually took a step back. The color drained from his face. I didn't blame him.

Because the voice issuing from the phone was the voice of the man he had apparently just killed.

His eyes flicked back to the head in a sort of horrified disbelief, perhaps suddenly realizing the suspicious lack of blood. And the fact that it was made of wax.

"And Dr. John Watson," I added quietly.

"Exactly," said Sherlock gleefully. "I knew you would see only the obvious-even you have the grand gift of being depressingly predictable. Rather convenient. You looked for just a few seconds and thought you saw the whole picture. The figure in the window could only be a fake, no one sits still for that long, right? So where else, _logically_ speaking, where else could I be?"

Throughout the whole speech, Monika had been struggling to escape, jerking her head to the window, trying to warn him that 221B's window was empty now. Too late.

Moran whirled around as he realized the voice was coming from two places now, both my phone and directly behind him.

Sherlock was leaning facetiously against the doorframe, his phone in one hand. He hung up and placed it in his pocket, straightened, smiled. Like a snake.

"Right under your nose. Funny how that happens, isn't it?"

I discreetly tried tightening my grip on Monika's throat-I didn't want to hurt her, I just wanted her unconscious as quickly as possible-but she brought her leg up and kneed me in the groin.

She caught me by surprise, so when I stumbled backwards she had time to sweep up one of the guns, which I promptly knocked out of her hand.

And then she punched me in the _face_.

Which was about when I lost any iota of respect for her I might have had before.

* * *

"Oh, _less _wrist!" yelled Sherlock, pulling a right hook and letting Moran spin with it. Quite good, he thought. But certainly not up to par. He would have to brush up on proper boxing and not just street fighting. Boxing was more of a challenge that wildly swinging one's limbs about, and it looked a lot more impressive. "I was actually quite looking forward to a proper fight, not-"

_CRASH._

"John!"

"Move," said the doctor, aiming his gun at Moran.

He did, slightly dazed. John had hit her with a chair. He had hit her over the head with a _chair._

"Did you….did you just…"

"Yeah. Don't start, she was trying to kill me. And you would probably have been next."

Moran blinked. "Going to shoot me, doctor?"

John stepped closer, dwarfed by him. There was a steely look in his eye. "Nope."

He slammed the butt of the gun into his face and Sherlock leapt forward to finish him off.

They stood there for a few moments, breathing hard, waiting for the adrenaline to wind down.

"I don't actually have any bullets," explained John, tucking it into his pocket. "Well, I mean, I do, but I took them all out Didn't think I'd need them."

"That…" said Sherlock, panting, "That was…I….do I know you?"

"Has it been that long?" said John all in one breath, and then they both started laughing. It was a while before they were able to stop, which was ridiculous, since it wasn't even funny. He didn't mind, though.

"I've…missed that," Sherlock said, after he had finally regained control enough to speak.

"What?"

"Having someone intelligent around to feel smarter than."

"Thanks…I think."

"You alright? You're bleeding."

John swiped at his split lip. "It's nothing."

Sherlock grabbed John's wrist as he took out his phone to call the police.

"Wait." He let go awkwardly. "Er…sorry. But…I wanted to say something. To you. In, uh, in private."

"Me, too," he replied.

There was a short silence.

"Okay," said Sherlock. "You first."

"No, you."

"Fine…I…I'm sorry," he blurted, fumbling for the right words. "I…didn't mean to…I…" He sighed. "You probably don't even remember, but on September 21st, 2011, you posted on your blog about Sarah's sister getting sick, and I couldn't do anything, and you sounded so _worried_. I couldn't…I just wanted you to know that I was there and I didn't mean…to make you think…that I don't trust you. Because it was never, ever about that. And…"

"Sherlock," said the doctor, cutting him off gently. "I know. I know, okay? I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have shouted, and I shouldn't have hit you. I was mad."

"I don't want this to go away," he continued. He wasn't even thinking about the words anymore. They just came. He had never felt this vulnerable. "I can't." Sherlock took a deep breath. "I can't do this, I can't…" He made a desperate circling motion with one hand, still lost for the phrase, or perhaps just unsure if he was ready to say it. "…lose you again."

There was a very long pause before John answered.

"I tossed the Prozac," he said quietly. "And…I'm going to stop seeing the therapist."

"Why?"

"I didn't need either of them. I mean, maybe I did, for a little while, but…not now, I think."

"I'm sure you'll be very happy with Sarah," he mumbled.

"I'm only going to be ten minutes away," said John, managing to look both faintly amused and deeply touched. "It's not like I'm _actually _going anywhere. I'm not leaving."

He allowed himself a half smile. "Six if you run."

"That's if _you _run, you twit, you've got longer legs than me. I swear you've gotten taller."

"Or you've just got short."

"Can I call the police now?"

"Oh yes, go ahead. I want to give them _my_ version of the facts."

He raised an eyebrow. "You figured the Adair thing out?"

"I think so, yes."

"And you want an audience. Why am I not surprised…"

"Shut up and call."


	20. Epilogue

There were urgent footsteps, now, pounding up the stairs. The door burst open.

"METROPOLITAN POLICE!"

Lestrade's coat was billowing impressively in the breeze from the open window. He had a baton out.

Sherlock slowly tilted his head. "Nice try, but no."

I strode over to the window and shut it. His coat, along with the rest of him, deflated.

"But…" He looked at the unconscious bodies on the floor, bewildered. "But…"

More footsteps. Into the room poured a mixture of Yarders, some who I had never seen before. Donovan was there, but the other three were new; a slim Asian woman with rectangular glasses, an amiable looking black kid who couldn'thave been over twenty, and a stocky, solidly built middle-aged man with a red face and a seemingly permanent scowl.

"Are we early?" said the kid.

"No," said Lestrade in a very small voice. Donovan pushed him forward to make room for everyone else.

The room was now getting rather cramped. Sherlock looked extremely annoyed at the arrival of all these extraneous people, most likely because he no longer had room to pace.

"Detective Inspector Alison Sato," said the Asian woman professionally. "And you are?"

"Er, John Watson. I'm…a doctor," I finished lamely.

"He's with me, don't worry," said Sherlock brusquely.

Donovan rolled her eyes and gestured to the two men behind her. "DC Stanley Hopkins-"

"Just Stan, please-" interrupted the kid.

"-and Toby Gregson,"

"Inspector Gregson, if you don't mind."

Sherlock smirked at him. "I believe we've met."

"Yes," he replied, just as icily.

"What _happened _in here?" asked Lestrade, still somewhat in a state of shock. "Is that…is that Moran?"

"Your observational powers are frightening," said Sherlock dryly.

"But who's the woman?"

"Not important," he said dismissively. "Let's get back to the Adair case."

"How does this have anything to do with that?" said Donovan.

"It has _everything_ to do with it. Let's begin with the facts."

"We did that already," I reminded. "I don't think anyone here needs a recap."

"Okay, fine. The window was open, am I right?"

"Y-"

"Check the bag."

Donovan kneeled next to it and unzipped it, pulling out the strangest looking gun I had ever seen in my life.

"Oh," I said.

"Yes. See? He gets it! Come on, anyone else?" No one moved. Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "It's a sniper rifle."

"Well, yes," said Sato. "I can see that."

"But's what's he done to it?" asked Gregson. "Is that a silencer on the end?"

"Yes," I said, intrigued. I held out a hand. "May I?"

She handed it over. "It looks like…" I turned it around a few times. "It looks like he's modified it so he can shoot lower caliber bullets."

"So that it would look the shots came from a handgun," said Lestrade, nodding. _Wow, _mouthed Stan.

"It's actually…quite brilliant," I said, amazed. It was.

Gregson scowled. Well, scowled deeper, anyway. "Why Adair?"

Sato shrugged. "Who knows?"

"We could question him later…"

"If by "question", you mean coerce," interrupted Lestrade loudly. "Then I-"

"None of this is relevant!" cut in Sherlock, frustrated. "You don't need to question him, just look at Adair!"

"What?"

"Adair. His yearbook photos."

"His _what_?" asked Gregson emphatically.

"Yearbook. It's an American thing," I explained. "I think it's taking off here, too. It's like a…commemorative end of the year book for schoolchildren."

"Well, what about them?" said Sato, a fraction impatient.

"He was wearing long sleeves in all the pictures."

"He's doing it again," muttered Donovan. "Freak."

"Could you please not call him that in front of me?" I asked, suddenly fed up with her attitude.

There was a short silence, during which she looked like she would like to sink through the floor and never come back up. Oddly satisfying, actually.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "Continue."

"All right," he said, watching me with something akin to fondness in his eyes. "He lived in Australia, and the photos were taken around summertime. He went to a private school where the uniforms allowed a choice between short and long sleeves, so there is no logical reason he would choose long sleeves. Inspector, you said the parents were withholding information, didn't you? I found one photo with him in short sleeves. Guess what was on his arms."

No one answered.

"_Track marks_," he said emphatically. "All up and down his arms. That's what they were hiding. The rest devolves into speculation. We know Adair had a gambling problem, we know he frequented the International, and we know that he was quite good. We don't know for certain that Moran did as well, but the security footage could prove useful to pin some extra charges on him, for cheating and possibly assault."

Stan had been taking all of this down in a notebook, which he folded and put in his pocket. Lestrade nodded at him. "I'll expect a case report on my desk by Monday."

"Yes, sir."

Donovan was leaned over Monika, having already handcuffed Moran. She gave a little groan of pain.

"Shut up," said Donovan casually. "You're under arrest for assault, accessory, and conspiracy to murder."

"I'll get Moran," said Gregson, hauling him up. Moran didn't look fazed in the least. Not even resigned, just…tired. He led him out. Sato took Monika.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched; he couldn't resist one last jab. "Well, at least we've answered the age old question of what you lot would do without me. If I recall from the papers correctly, you handled the Mosely murders better than usual."

Stan frowned. "But we didn't catch the…oh. Er," he muttered, embarrassed. "I'll…I'll shut up now."

"I think that would be for the best," said Sato, but she was smiling slightly. "I'll be seeing you two, Sherlock, Dr. Watson."

"No doubt."

"Wait a minute," said Lestrade. "Hold on. You two made up?"

"Er…yeah," I said.

"Ha!" he laughed triumphantly. "I told you! I _told _you! All of you owe me money!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as Sato rolled her eyes and paid up. "For what?"

"I wasn't that far off," she grumbled. "I said three weeks, but…"

"I was closer," I said, handing over five pounds. "I said two."

"You were betting on how long it would take us," said Sherlock flatly. "You…John…you too?"

"And me," admitted Gregson. "Although I said a month."

Sherlock was looking at me in utter disbelief. "I…you…I'm unfriending you on Facebook."

"I was drunk!" I exclaimed, putting my hands up defensively. "And no you're not."

"I never did," he said quietly.

Lestrade jerked his head in the direction of the door. "Let's get out of here, then, it's late."

We fell behind the rest of the group.

"And I'm not coming to your wedding, either," said Sherlock, sulking. He brightened suddenly. "Oh, wait, yes I am, I've got to give the toast!"

"Oh, please, God no…"

He held up an imaginary glass of champagne. "Did you know that his middle name is not actually Harry? On his blog, that's a typo. It's not 'H', it's 'T', as in 'Three Continents'-"

I elbowed him. "Shut up."

It was about then that I had my own little epiphany. It was that I was going to be doing this for a long, long time. Solving murders, I mean. With Sherlock. Losing sleep, chasing criminals, almost getting killed every once in a while. When you put it like that, it sounds like a bad thing, but it's not.

He elbowed me back. "Dinner?"

"Yes, please. I'm starving."

"There's a good Italian place a few blocks from here…I hear they make risotto."

"Can't be better than mine."

"We'll never know. Thank God."

It really isn't. In fact, it's the best thing in the world.

**So that's that. Thank you all for your support!  
The sequel now has a title: The Slender Man.**

**MUAHAHAHAHAHA.**

**Sleep tight.**


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